Beginning Again
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** Fitting, then, that out of the ashes of darkness past, rose a future brighter than any had seen in what seemed like many long years...But now that he had that future, what was he going to do about it? --PHOENIX SERIES. NO Slash.--


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in this marvelous universe—ja nai, nada, nilch, zip, zero—everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N:** Eh, what can I say :sheepish smile: I was bitten by a plot-bunny and it wouldn't let go. It is NON-SLASH and part of a new series which I will be working on periodically, called _The Phoenix Series_. No worries, though, I'm still working on _Near As Your Next Breath_ and hope to have the next chapter out sometime within the next few weeks.

"**Speaking"**

**/Personal Thoughts/**

**NON-SLASH. Installment One of the Phoenix Series.**

**.:Beginning Again:.**

By Sentimental Star

(Easter Evening, 1998)

The sounds of merry-making and reveling were muffled as the doors (enormous as they were) slowly, silently shut behind him, becoming nothing more than part of the background. He left behind the bright lights of the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witch Craft and Wizardry, left behind the warm laughter and the shouting and the crying and the hugging, left behind the sparkling decorations and the gaudy party hats. Drawing his student robe tightly around him, the shadowed figure followed the well-worn path to the Astronomy Tower, his face hidden by longish dark strands of hair.

He just wanted time to himself for once, time to think, reflect, and grieve. As ever, the Astronomy Tower provided that sanctuary.

He passed through the corridors of the best and the worst times in his childhood and in his schooling here, passed through hallways aged and trodden by hundreds of students before him. How much blood had been shed in these stone corridors over the years? How many destinies had come into fulfillment? How many lives had begun and ended in these passageways? And what of the simple, every day things? Crushes, break-ups, hook-ups, engagements, how many of those had taken place here? What amount of tears had fallen over lost loves and friends and family members who had passed on?

Through war and strife, anguish and agony, these corridors had stood, ancient and rock-solid. They had witnessed dreams and destinies, joy and merriment, recording story upon story in their walls. What secrets did they hold, why did they offer such reassurance and stability? Such protection and security?

He did not know, but he still had risked his very life and soul for these corridors and their walls, so that many _more_ secrets and stories could be locked securely within their confines.

Climbing up the weathered stone steps to the Observation Platform of the Astronomy Tower he allowed his hand to trail lightly over smooth, cool surfaces of the stonework.

Triumph, betrayal, redemption, forgiveness—he could not forget those stories either. How many had forged their paths here, whether light or dark or in-between? How many had strayed? How many had returned?

And his own story, was it not recorded here, too? Its ups and downs? Its twists and turns?

The newspapers did not need to publish their articles. The reporters did not need their interviews. It was all right here, right under his finger-tips, more stories than anyone could ever hope to learn in a lifetime.

Crossing the Observation Platform to an open window, he pulled himself up onto the wide ledge and curled up in a comfortable nook of the window seat, one hand holding his robes closed in the blessed cool of the evening breeze.

Fitting, really, that this day be the same one as the Muggle Christian holiday, one of the only days his Muggle relatives attended church. The—what were they called, ministers? priests?—well, regardless, the people of the church had explained that this day, this day was a day of finality and renewal, death and rebirth. Fitting, then, that out of the ashes of darkness past, rose a future brighter than any had seen in what seemed like many long years.

He released a soft breath. But now that he had that future, what was he going to do about it?

"Potter?"

He jerked in surprise at the soft inquiry, whirling around and nearly falling out of the open window. Nearly, because at that exact moment a large, slim hand shot out to grab him.

Once steadied, the seventeen-year-old squinted up at the dark, would-be menacing figure behind him. It was, after all, quite dim up there during the evening. A slice of white moonlight fell across his companion's—dare he think—concerned obsidian eyes. "Professor?" he murmured in slight confusion.

A faintly exasperated sigh—or was it one of relief? He couldn't tell. "Yes, Potter, Merlin forbid I be anyone else," came the gruffly muttered retort.

In spite of himself, the younger man gave a quiet chuckle at the typically acerbic response.

In the slice of moonlight, he watched as the older wizard rolled his eyes before gently releasing him and, turning so that he faced the young Gryffindor, carefully eased himself up onto the ledge beside him. The moonlight now fell full on the older man's pale face, causing the dark eyes to glitter almost like a cat's. Those glittering orbs intently studied the student's shadowed face. "Why are you not at the celebration? One would think the Man-Who-Saved-Us-All would gladly bask in the light of his own Feast," the latter part was heavily laden with sarcasm.

The Seventh Year averted his eyes, muttering, "Yes, one _would_ think that, wouldn't they?" He cast a sidelong glance at the Potions Master. "But you know me better than that, don't you, Professor? That's why you followed me."

A mild snort. "After seven years of enduring your insufferable presence, I would certainly hope so."

"And after two years of being one of the only adults I could fully trust, I would certainly hope so, too," the young man replied softly.

Another snort, but the young Gryffindor could clearly see a slight reddish tinge decorated his Professor's cheeks. They lapsed into silence, then, and not an entirely uncomfortable one.

A silence broken, however, moments later when the younger of the two asked suddenly, "Was it worth it, Professor? Was this victory worth all those deaths? Cedric, my parents, Sirius, Remus, all those others? Was it really worth it?"

The intent look remained. "What do you want me to say, Harry?" the Potions Master asked quietly.

The seventeen-year-old shook his head several times, furiously swiping at tears that had somehow managed to leak out of the corners of his eyes. "I don't know. I don't _know_! I just want the pain to go away. Why won't it go away? Will it _ever_ go away?"

"I cannot answer that, Harry," his teacher replied softly. The older wizard gently took his hand, holding it against the stone frame of the window. "What I do know is that by defeating Voldemort three days ago you saved these well-loved walls from having to chronicle endless stories of death and despair and grief. Yes, there were many deaths in both wars. But, Harry, think how many _more_ lives could have been lost had you not done so. Think of the stories that would never have been told had you not defeated him."

The young Gryffindor looked startled at that, then thoughtful. He had not quite looked at it that way.

Seeing he had gotten to the younger man, the Potions Professor took his student's hand off the wall and held it up so that it looked as though he had but to reach out and grasp a handful of stars from the sky. "You have your whole _life_ ahead of you now and you need only to reach out and grasp it. Dreams are wonderful things, Harry, and they can take you as far as you can imagine."

A ghost of a smile finally flitted across the shadowed countenance, lighting it just the tiniest bit. "I don't know," he murmured, "I can imagine quite a lot."

The Potions Master gave yet another snort and rolled his eyes. "Typical." His obsidian orbs turned serious again. "But, Harry, it doesn't matter. As far as you can imagine. Just think of that. Size does not matter, you can achieve it nonetheless. And you know why, Harry? Because you don't have to be a weapon anymore. You can make your own choices, make your own mistakes, make your own _life_. Harry," the supposedly acerbic Potions Master suddenly, impulsively reached out and cupped his student's cheek, "Merlin, don't you understand? You're _free_."

And for perhaps the first time ever, as his breathing hitched, he realized that his teacher was right. He was _right_. He could become whatever he wanted now, whatever he chose to be, and could live his life however he chose to live it. "I'm free," he repeated to himself over and over, voice a whisper, though the older wizard still heard, "I'm free. Oh, Merlin, I'm _free_!"

And with little to no preamble, he threw himself into his startled Potions Professor's arms, echoing an action taken earlier this week—unconsciously on his part—in the happy chaos immediately following Voldemort's demise. His face was buried in the black-cloth-covered-chest of the older man, who remained frozen a moment in place before hesitantly wrapping his arms around his student. As tears silently flowed down his cheeks to wet the black cloth beneath them, he whispered again, "I'm free."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Some time later, the young Gryffindor calmed down enough to pull away, but he could not bring himself to feel embarrassed, as he usually did when they shared a moment like this. Nor did it seem he had to, as the Potions Master gazed at him with a look in his eyes that could only be considered tender.

"Will you come down to the feast now?" the man asked.

The seventeen-year-old gave a garbled laugh and wiped away the last remnants of tears. His emerald eyes sparkling brightly, the younger wizard teased, "Is that the whole reason you came after me? To convince me to return to the feast?"

The older man smirked warmly at him. "But of course. If I have to suffer through hundreds of idiots drinking themselves into a stupor, then it is only fair you have to suffer, too."

Another laugh, this one somewhat less garbled than the first. "Then lead the way, sir."

The young man was rather startled in the next minute when, after setting his feet on the Observation Platform and standing up straight, the Potions Master turned to him and carefully lifted him down. Lightly gripping the student's shoulders, clearly serious again, the older wizard gazed earnestly at him. "Tell me honestly, Harry, are you really all right?"

The Gryffindor smiled reassuringly at the worried man. "I am now, Professor."

"Good," breathed out in heavy relief.

The sparkle in the seventeen-year-old's eyes turned mischievous as they began to head towards the staircase. "I do have a question, though, sir."

Failing to note the mischievous light in the young man's emerald orbs, the older wizard inclined his head slightly.

A full-blown grin appeared on the Gryffindor's face. "Who are you and what have you done with Professor Snape?"

The Potions Master started in surprise at the positively impish question, before growling good-naturedly and lightly cuffing the younger wizard upside the head, "Brat. You know perfectly well what happened."

The young man chuckled softly and the Professor glanced at him, then casually swung his arm around his student's shoulders, clasping the seventeen-year-old savior of the wizarding world's head to his shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Something which I have you to thank for."

**The Beginning**


End file.
